


The Dæmons of Demons

by TheMermaidLord



Series: The Dæmons of Supernatural [3]
Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, Supernatural
Genre: (not very much don't worry), Crowley is a Fallen Angel, Fallen Angels, Gen, Hell, I know this took several centuries, I'm like that, It's worth it (not really), mentions of torture, shhh - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 18:37:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5015764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMermaidLord/pseuds/TheMermaidLord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The third part in my The Dæmons of Supernatural series.</p>
<p>I am well aware of how long this took, but I've been trying to write a lot of stuff recently, all with a severe case of writers block. Forgive me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dæmons of Demons

**Crowley and Selendri**

When an angel takes a vessel, all must be willing, all at peace. That human's dæmon must be in agreement as well, and both of them must utter a 'yes'. Castiel had often found hope in the fact that even when Sam seemed to be at his lowest, even when Cas might not have been surprised if Sam had given in, Mallika was always steady, and proud. That the very trait which might have caused the downfall of God's kingdom may be that that preserves it was an irony of the universe which hadn't ceased to amuse him. Sam's dæmon appeared to represent all the good in him, the bravery and the kindness, and the fierce, fierce, love, burning like a fire in her tawny eyes. Often Castiel felt that the way Lucifer eventually took control, in a desperate bid for Team Free Will to end this, was the only way it ever could have happened. When an angel takes over it's dæmon places an invisible hand on the vessel's partner's shoulder, and guides it.

When a demon takes a vessel, there are no such gestures. The smoke, once a human soul, more or less pure, overcome with dark rot and suffering, flows into it's chosen meatsuit through the mouth. It claws it's way through the veins and muscles, finally travelling back up the spinal chord and seeping through the brain, like rats into garbage. The person relaxes from their state of every joint locked, every limb braced, and looks over with red eyes at this new meatsuit's dæmon. It's original form, let's just say a lizard, is squeaking in pain and outrage on the ground, forcefully immobilised and made to watch as her partner of a lifetime becomes something _else_. Then, with a shudder, she will find herself able to move again, but before she can take one leap at him, the pain starts. Her flesh will start to bubble, her mind will start to slip, and within five seconds, the green-brown scales will split with thick black fur, and the dæmon Selendri will leap into Crowley's arms.

His chosen meatsuit is very him, with a regal air, yet so easy to blend in with in a crowd. (And, of course, the accent, which was mainly why Crowley chose him.) Selendri, though, is not easy to pass off as ordinary. Her form is that of a cat, huge, with fluffy velvet fur, the colour of deepest night, light glinting off it like miniature suns. But of course, if anyone who knew this body were to see him, questions would be raised, and the woman that was his reason for his coming here could always tell of Selendri, if persuaded. Not that she would be surviving, but Crowley liked to be sure. He looked over and she sighed, her skin starting to ripple again, shrinking down until she was a lizard again and jumping to his shoulder, resting on the dark jacket this body wore.

They find the woman their sources say is handing out knowledge of salt, demon's traps, anything to keep the hellhounds at bay ( _and it's working, though Crowley hates to admit it_ ), dissembles her defences with a click of the fingers, and paints the walls with her blood. He takes his time burning all her paperwork, her diaries, and when he's finished he stabs himself in the neck and leaves the body behind.

Selendri hasn't always been a cat, of course. When he was first born, hundreds of years ago, his dæmon took her form early, a scabby polecat, trying to protect him from Rowena's wrath. Then he heard about demons, he doesn't even remember where from, and also started to feel these hints of memories, from something _before_ , a past life, maybe, when he was something _more_. Demons are the only thing _more_ he can think of, even from the lips of an old drunk. Oh, yes, it was an old drunk, or a collection of them, streaming through bars in his hometown, telling tales of souls sold years ago, for money for drink.

He knows that everyone feels like they don't belong, like they're royalty swapped at birth, but for him it _consumes_ him, this feeling of _else_. He'll wake up from tattered dreams, the edges stained with the imprint of a white dove, and that dove is _Selendri_. Crowley knows she shares his anguish, his sense of non-belonging, but she won't say, because it would only take a moment of agreement, of persuasion, of recognition, and then he would do it. Selendri wants that to happen just as much and as little as he does.

He, they, do it anyway. They ask for a year, rather than ten, and while the demon's red-eyed face remains impassive, almost bored, her snake-dæmon betrays her confusion with an odd shake of the head. She grants his wish anyway, the stupidest thing he could think of, in order to make even his death some sort of rebellion. Selendri looks down as they kiss, as the yellow reptile slithers around her feet. A year is spent waiting, occasionally regretting, in constant anticipation. They greet the hellhounds with a smirk, like they've learned to greet everything. Then they die.

Hell is not as expected. Crowley, Fergus as he still was then, is apparently not a major investment, because much of his 'torture' is waiting for the actual pain to arrive. He's been down there twenty years when one of the demons, an apprentice, cracks the surface of this 'else', this 'more', and is vaporised instantly. It only happens the once, but Crowley, as he's decided to style himself, has become a front row project. Bare months after, months filled with pain and misery and the occasional bout of sadistic laughter, the last of his humanity burns away and Crowley rises to the exit of hell as black smoke (it'll become red soon enough), finds the nearest body, streams into its mouth, and watches it's screaming dæmon with the closest thing he can feel to excitement, to see his polecat again.

She isn't a polecat any more.

**Author's Note:**

> For once, BabyNames.org was not needed to help me in my quest. I stole the name Selendri from the Gentlemen Bastards series by Scott Lynch. They're amazing books, I would really recommend them.
> 
> I should probably try to write that Hetalia fic again. Or not.


End file.
